A continually conjured death storm
churns through ocean gyres,
where albatross gather trinkets of death
then carry them back to their family nest.
Human neglect slides down necks.
Bottle caps, lighters, tubing, and knobs.
Fishing twine: human dreck.

A scarce rain slapped the side of the hospital in sheets.
He sat, rooted in a chair near a window.

His spirit eroded as he imagined
cells from his loins scraped from his
girlfriend’s womb like vegetation detached at its roots.
His first child killed, like one sorry weed.

Afterward, she had no strength for talking.
Three crows perched on her Jeep’s
roll bar and she shooed them
away, as the last of his
mercy wove a path into oncoming darkness
then shattered glass against her heart.

Those three crows came up each time
his fist revisited her face.

“You shooed off

*punch*

our family

*punch*

sure as you shooed off

*punch*

them crows.”

She took it until her own soul shattered,

then left him, trying to piece together
the jagged shards of everything she once was.

Overhead a crow caws, a tether rippling from its talons as it scans the warring hordes. A page of history rises like a status update while the black bird circles the two Gods’ fighting yard, an unholy park of steel and flesh— spilling blood for a city, spilling blood to prove which God is just: Allah or Yahweh, Allah or Our Father.

Neither side rests unable to curb adrenaline’s slice until death does them part fervently falling into fields of forever.

Brenda Warren 2013

VIsit The Sunday Whirl

Process Notes: Salah ad-Din, or Saladin lead an army called the Ayyubid army (I did some searching to find that name, as I wanted to be historically accurate). He captured Jerusalem, defeating the Knights Templar in 1187. I’ve been steeping myself in medieval movies, and watched Arn twice yesterday on Netflix. It is also a six episode series on Netflix. The series goes into far more detail. Both or either are worthy of watching. Arn is a Knight Templar. War in the name of God seems contradictory, yet it is common.

The colonel twitched
bloodied to a pulp in media gutters
he longed for a bottle of water
sitting at a sidewalk café
looking always looking
anywhere he wanted
glasses dark
fear flickering in everyone
who knew who he was
as he thumped his fist
against the side of his crooked legacy
carved out in bloody revolts.

He tried to control
the viscous gurgle
filling up his throat
and died sounding
like a weak man vanishing
while cell phone cameras clicked.

Brenda Warren 2011
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wrote this piece from some words pulled from Mike Patrick’s poem, Singing on Murkle. While the gory ending certainly evokes the spirit of the season, it didn’t come out as a Halloween poem. It is what it is.

I used one of the 12 words this week in the title. To see more pieces comprised of words from Mike’s poem, visit The Sunday Whirl.

smoke and mirrors don’t change anything
slanted reflections always portray partial truths
cutting flesh a raven screams
and I want to go into hiding
somewhere with no windows
where my carriage spreads beneath trees
nourishing roots
and is not preserved in
satin-lined extravagance
under cemetery granite
where lights fade slowly
for the sleeping dead

bury me deep
beneath a cold night sky
while friends drum the Earth
that forms my body into place

with the children build a cairn
of smooth Montana river stones
and with each balanced rock
place a memory
a little me
a little you
a little we
a little them
laugh and talk about me
like I’m not even there

spill a little whiskey for my soul

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In good health, I wrote this piece and have tweaked at it for a few days to post at One Shot Wednesday. Thank you for reading at undercaws.